


innocence died screaming

by iskra (kiira)



Series: all of the things that i once loved [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, hence the non-con warning, the dean is in laura's body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/iskra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but you were once your mother's favorite child</p>
            </blockquote>





	innocence died screaming

Once upon a time, you loved her as you loved yourself, completely, unconditionally, without reason or boundary or depth, for she was the one who cradled you from the grave, smoothed matted hair from your eyes and breathed a kind of second-life into your lungs. She taught you to lap blood from gashes torn in pretty, smooth necks, taught you to kiss until they scream and fuck until they’re yours, taught you to rip out spines with a curtsey and to dig your nails into still-beating hearts.

But now she’s standing in front of you, her face hers, her face Laura’s, her face ancient and somewhere in between and you have never hated with the depth that you hate now. You thought you had reached it when you were trapped below the earth, left screaming for years (for decades, for centuries, for millennia), cursing your Mother and your mother, your father from so many years ago and the Father you were promised when you reached His Promised Land, but that was heat and fury and uncontrollable rage and this? This is ice and sheer helplessness, for you are old (so damn old) and you can do nothing.

(At least last time you watched Elle die, you watched her beautiful white dress soak with blood and you knew with a bone deep certainty that it was done; your Mother would not give you the same satisfaction twice.)

Mother smooths her hands down Laura’s sides and you would rip off her hands if you could (if they weren’t Laura, Laura, Laura).

“Give us a kiss, Mircalla darling,” and once upon a time you loved her as you loved yourself and that once upon a time is still spinning to an end; you kiss her cheek (it is cold, cold, cold; your Mother kills everything she touches).

She tilts Laura’s head so your kiss smears along the side of Laura’s mouth and you have the remembered motions of nausea rise up because you never wanted it like this, never. You want Laura, want her more than you care to think about when you’re sober, you don’t want your kisses on Mother’s dead lips, on Laura’s pretty mouth, you don’t want to look into Laura’s eyes and see Mother’s eternity staring back.

“Mircalla, sweet,” and you want to scream it’s Carmilla, Carmilla, Carmilla but you were once your Mother’s favorite child and old habits die hard, “You wouldn’t want to watch this darling girl suffer?”

And for a split second you are confused. You do not understand, cannot comprehend what she is saying (you do not want to understand, do not want to comprehend).

“‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’” and your Mother calmly plunges her dagger into Laura’s heart, smiling prettily at you as Laura bleeds out through her blouse. “I’ll leave now. Give you two a minute before she…” Mother trails off, places her fingers on the blood and delicately puts them in her mouth, and you want to be sick. “I’ll see you soon, Mircalla. Don’t betray me again, I know where to find you.”

The room feels smaller for a split second and you squeeze your eyes shut, and when you open them, Laura is sitting on her bed.

Laura.

Is sitting on her bed and you nearly trip on your feet as you stumble to her, pressing your fingers against her chest, expecting your hands to paint with blood, but she’s solid, she’s warm (she’s warm; somehow, somehow, somehow you don’t kill everything you touch).

“Carm–” and she would say something, but you are sobbing in her lap and her fingers weave themselves in your hair, and she whispers again, “Carm?”

There’s something akin to amazed pity in her voice (you are close to ancient and you think no one has pitied you before) “Carm, what happened to you?”

And you sob, because it has been three hundred years and you can be broken the same way over and over and over, because you are helpless, because you are small and a child and you will never love unconditionally again.


End file.
